


Those Who Favor Fire

by dauphine



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Gen, PTSD, Post-Game(s), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dauphine/pseuds/dauphine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is different after the defeat of the Reapers. To Shepard, adjustment is difficult enough, but buried under the weight of all she has seen and done it is even harder. As those around her watch the cracks begin to show, she must face the loss of that which has defined her for so long.</p><p>Entry for the 2012 Mass Effect Big Bang</p><p>Art by Lackia</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to Lackia not just for the art but for being an awesome collaborator. I'm really lucky to have been able to work with someone so talented, not to mention someone willing to stick with me through extensions and deadline crunches and so on. I remain in awe.
> 
> My unending gratitude to tumblr user liberalspaceship for beta help and especially for being my sounding board during all this. Couldn't have done it without you, dear.
> 
> Thanks also to Arachne Jericho, whose blog posts on living with and writing about PTSD were invaluable in planning and writing this fic. Her posts are fantastic; any errors or mistakes in the handling here are my own.
> 
> Lastly, thanks most of all to angel-among-fandom alishatorn, whose time and effort in running the Big Bang are the only reason this piece exists.

 

 

  


thanks to [lackia](http://noneedforsuspicion.tumblr.com/) for the awesome illustrations

* * *

**“We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial- I believe we are lost.”  
** **\--** _**Erich Maria Remarque, veteran of World War I** _

__

* * *

 

The new London is a strange beast, its buildings too white and too new and striped with scaffolds of red rebar in its healing wounds. Graceless rectangles predominate, and you can't help but think maybe it was a pity all the asari architects were preoccupied with Thessia. Above it all glows the Citadel Beam -- maybe it's just that your introduction to the city was to its ruins, but the beacon still looks strangest of all to you.  
  
If you had your way, you would have never come back to this place. No, you're only here because today Commander Lily Shepard begins her third 'second chance' at life. At least this start is going much more smoothly than her previous revival -- as one of her brief messages noted, this recovery has been entirely 100-percent free of attack by hacked security mechs, and that's a definite improvement.  
  
By the time the Normandy clears atmo and docks at the spaceport you have already received several more messages on your omni-tool, each one with increasing levels of thinly veiled impatience. One contains a voice clip that catches you completely off-guard during the crowded shuttle ride to the airport. Though you shut it off quickly, judging by the looks you're getting from Joker and Vega you will be catching some shit for that particular slip-up.  
  
"Sounds like you got plans for tonight, Vakarian."  
  
“Yeah, well...”  
  
Cortez saves you from having to come up with anything clever. “We’re here, guys.”  
  
By the time you clamber out of the Kodiak you’ve forgotten any lingering embarrassment. It's been months since you've seen her and even longer on her end, seeing as she was unconscious for your few visits. Savior of the galaxy or no, she is the woman you love, and you are more than ready to be back at her side.  
  
Shepard is already waiting in a quiet back lobby with vigilant marines ringing its every entrance. Trays of cupcakes and coolers of juice make this officially a strange little party. An orderly wrings her hands and warns you that none of the platters are dextro-friendly. You tell her that’s fine. You doubt you could even eat right now anyway.  
  
"Better get here soon, Garrus," Shepard’s message had said. "We'll have to behave, so I’m expecting a real welcome tonight."  
  
There's a chair next to her, and you don't even take long enough to wonder if she was saving it for you. You claim it, reaching for her hand and holding it tight, noting with something almost like amusement that neither of you have lost the knack of making three fingers mesh with five.  
  
But then there is the public to attend to. Nurses and military mingle, and throughout it all the galaxy's greatest hero jokes and laughs with the rest. She disparages the bland hospital food, laments a lack of additives for the punch; you sit silent at her side. She can play good host all she wants. You were never much good at the PR side of things anyway.  
  
It doesn’t take long for talk to turn to her last miraculous survival, but the hospital staff are quick to shoot down any comparison. She was still breathing when they hauled her from the wreckage, they insist, then go on -- it was somewhere near Vauxhall Station, they add like it matters. You are already sick of hearing this story, of remembering its beginning and the terrible love in her eyes as she went to her death in that beam. It makes you more than a little bit sick, and their flat humor isn't helping. Every single one has another dumb quip on hand; each seems to think that this going-away-slash-welcome-back party is the perfect time to test-drive all their most clever private jokes. It goes consistently poorly, but Shepard smiles nonetheless, laughing like she hasn't had months to get sick of the forced puns and unfunny ribbing.  
  
"Commander Shepard, you've just defeated an entire race of ancient homicidal cyborg machine-squids!" one of the nurses breaks in, suddenly exuberant. "What're you going to do next?" Half the room turns to look. Her smile comes more slowly this time, you notice.  
  
A beat, then the expected punchline. "I'm going to Disneyland!" she chimes, just as an orderly arrives with more cookies and punch. The partygoers laugh and turn to refill their little paper plates.  
  
Shepard, out of the spotlight for the moment, lets the grin slip off her face.  
  
"Shepard... Hey, Lily?" you say, just loud enough to be heard over the crowd, wondering if you might get to talk to her after all. Just like that she has another smile ready, and the ease of that transition does nothing to quell the strange hollow feeling growing in your chest. You change your mind about the talking. "C'mon. Let's go see about that real welcome."


	2. Chapter 2

_Shepard dreams._   
  
_Beneath her fingers the grass is damp and soft; the blanket warm and even softer. The air is thick and cool as the sun rides low in the sky. All around is forest, branches heavy with leaves and laved with dusky light. It is July, or maybe August, and between the trees a few late-season fireflies dance._   
  
_Other things are moving between the trees, too -- Shepard gets only a flash of movement but that is all it takes. There are people out there, she realizes, and steels herself for the faces of the dead._   
  
_The dead do come, but they are not alone. The living also straggle into the clearing, smiling and laughing and bearing baskets in their hands. Their ornate picnic manifests slowly, platter after platter joining its brethren on the blankets._   
  
_By the time those platters are emptied the sun has set, but there are no stars winking overhead. The sky is flat black like cast iron, and the steam rising from her mug is stark white against it. “What’s wrong with the sky...?” she wonders aloud._   
  
_No one looks, save one. Garrus does not look up, though. He looks at her, puzzled, and asks what’s wrong. Why would she say something like that?_   
  
_“Something like what? The sky--” She tries to persist, her voice suddenly fails. For a few long moments of frustration she works her throat; still she cannot speak. What is wrong with her? And what is wrong with them, she wonders, that they don’t notice?_   
  
_She is still wondering when the coal-black sky begins to burn._

* * *

  
  
You are not ashamed to admit that you once hated the idea of living on the Citadel, much less on the Presidium. To be honest, you’d never even considered making a home in the center of Council Space -- not since leaving C-Sec, at least. At some point, though, home stopped being a place and became a person; before you even had a chance to catch your breath the two of you were watching the Presidium fountains together from your bedroom. And maybe it’s just the company you’re keeping, but now that you’re not patrolling the place for white-collar criminals, the Presidium is really starting to grow on you.  
  
It has its advantages, after all... like opening your day with a stroll through the beating heart of galactic civilization. Shepard loves to be in the middle of it all. Peoplewatching doesn’t hold much appeal to you -- it feels too much like work -- but watching her peoplewatch? You’re okay with that.  
  
At least the speakers here aren’t still blasting her voice every other adspot; there are places in the Wards where you can still hear her endorsement going from three different shopfronts all at once, each just a second off from the others.  
  
“Feeling brave, Garrus?”  
  
You follow her gaze up to the top of the ring. “Only if you’re feeling like losing.”  
  
She scoffs.  
  
“Yeah, I know. That damn Citadel crossbreeze.” You squeeze her hand. “Winner picks dinner, loser’s treat?”  
  
“You’re on, Vakarian.”  
  
“Does this end with you waking up next to a turian again?” She’s laughing and you press on. “As I seem to recall, you still haven’t made me blush yet.”  
  
If you were human, the look she shoots you would have you red from eyebrows to chin. Or wherever it is humans blush. Shepard doesn’t give you many chances to see her embarrassed, so most of her flushes come when you are otherwise distracted.  “Haven’t given up on it yet, either.”  
  
Shooting practice needs targets, and while you don’t carry around a half-dozen empty bottles everywhere you go, there is a liquor store on the corner that'll sell you as many full bottles as you can carry. It's been a long while since just you kicked back and had a few. Maybe a revisit of your favorite spot on the Citadel is just what the evening needs.  
  
You mention this to her. "So what do you think? You, me, a twelve-pack or two, dozens of confused bystanders... you in?"  
  
"Sounds like a date," she says, but her voice has gone strange and quiet. When you glance her way all you see is the back of her head -- she's staring off towards the café nearby, to all appearances transfixed by something in the crowd.  
  
"Shepard?"  
  
You get no answer, not even when you lean close and say her name again.  
  
It takes a few minutes of scanning to find the object of her attention, but find it you do. She's locked eyes with a human child, a young boy with pale hair and a pile of breakfast getting cold on his plate. He's returning her stare with every ounce of rapt attention he can muster. Hero worship, you conclude. "Look at him. Bet an autograph would make his year."  
  
That earns a faint, neutral noise in response. She still hasn't moved.

 

art by [lackia](http://thisminuteandsecond.tumblr.com/)

  
"You know him?" There have been crazy fans before, and maybe this kid is a stalker you haven't recognized yet, but something feels... off. Really off. You step in front of her. "Lily." Somewhere in your mind is a joke about having kids someday, but something stops you from breaking out your wit. "Hey. Everything okay?"  
  
When you break her line of sight she flinches. For a moment she’s confused; she glances around, frantic, hair whipping around her face, before looking down at her hands as if she's never seen them before. You're just about to say something when she pulls herself straight. "I'm fine. He just... reminded me of someone is all."  
  
You don't press the issue. _Someone_ could mean a lot of people -- strangers, friends, comrades... family. It’s never even occurred to you that she might’ve lost more than parents on Mindoir, and now is not the time to ask. You’ve seen enough of the look she’s wearing to know it’s the face of someone holding together by willpower alone. You pushing things isn't what she needs. Some space, a shooting date, a nice dinner... you'll bring it up later, with more time to think and less of an audience. It's probably nothing, in any case. No one alive got through the Reaper War without some scars, and picking at old wounds doesn't do anyone any good.  
  
Or so you tell yourself before you wrap an arm around her shoulders and steer her towards the liquor store. "C'mon, Shepard. You've got a shoot-off to lose."


	3. Chapter 3

_The dreams come more often now._  
  
 _The forest has turned to ash again, but its clearings are empty. She hasn’t dreamed of the restless dead since London. Columns of black smoke no longer crowd around the twisted and burnt benches, nor do they fill the corners of her vision with people she once knew. No echoes chase her on her achingly slow route through the glade -- tongues of shadow are still tongues, and without them the dead cannot speak. Instead, the gray hills are quiet... too quiet, quieter than the endlessness of dark space which is suddenly looking back at her through the eyes of a child. When the fire comes she stares, helpless, but when it billows into clouds she can see the flames reaching out for her, too. Shepard remembers her legs just in time to run._

 

* * *

 

You know there’s a mission before she rounds the corner. There’s a difference in her stride that doesn’t just come from a full set of armor; you’d know the beat of it anywhere, whether muffled on apartment carpeting or ringing on the metal grates of the Normandy’s armory. She comes down the hallway, and as she draws closer you hear the whirr of her armor joints. It's almost uncomfortable how quickly those little noises take you back to when war was normal.  
  
"Just got off the comm with Councilor Tevos," she says, not even a little breathless despite what must've been a mad rush to get ready. "There's a new smuggling ring working between here and Tayseri Ward, she wants us to check it out. Apparently one of them thought it was a good idea to threaten one of the councilor's nieces for 'protection'." She sighs and checks the sights on her assault rifle -- gleaming white, custom-specs, top-of-the-line mods... you'd take the M-98 Widow or even the M-92 Mantis over some grunt’s pray-and-spray any day, but the M-96 Mattock has some serious stopping power, and that was before she got her hands on it. Hers has a punch like a krogan. Maybe a thresher maw. You’ve never been on its business end and you’re happy to leave it at that.  
  
Checking your own gun is routine and comforting. "The usual search-and-destroy?"  
  
"Take any that surrender or are left standing in for questioning. The Councilor didn't seem like she'd mind if they all mysteriously exploded, but unfortunately for her I do take prisoners." She's checking her ammo now, calibrating the fine mix of chemicals and tech that turn standard-issue rounds into tiny doses of fiery death. Shepard looks up in time to catch you staring. "Something on my armor?" she says with a caught-you-looking grin.  
  
Like you even mind being caught.  
  
"You know, there's just something about a woman who knows her guns." You don't say everything you're thinking. Her armor is the same piercing white as her gun, striped with blue and gold. You know a little about human symbolism, about the purity of purpose and righteous fury and protection of the weak all wrapped up in her color choices. She dresses like an old warrior from human historicals and like everything else you love her for it.  
  
Then you remember how she wore black after Thessia, and you fight a shudder.  
  
She shakes her head. "And there's something about a guy who knows his lines." Final checks complete, she jerks her chin towards the door. "Let's move, Garrus."  
  
  
It’s easy enough to find them. There’s another Spectre along for the ride, this one a middle-aged salarian straight from STG, and he has the smuggler’s base triangulated with a speed that almost impresses you. The pair of you tear through the security systems while Shepard stands lookout. When the door slides open she is through in a heartbeat, sweeping the room with a precision that makes it hard to believe she ever spent a day off the field.  
  
"Security mechs. I can see the networking from here.” The salarian taps at his omni-tool. "One minute, I'll have them down."  
  
"Room's clear." She's still vigilant, eyeing the room's only other entrance like you haven't had it covered since you followed her through the door. "How many mechs are there?"  
  
"A few. Two dozen, maybe." He shrugs.  
  
"Leave them." From his post at the door, the salarian can't see her grinning, but you can, and her smile is fierce and eager. "They won't be a problem."  
  
"But shooting... won't that warn the smugglers?" Salarians don't have eye plates to raise, but his bulbous eyes get even bigger. It's almost the same effect.  
  
"You've got every other door to this place shut down. They're not going anywhere."  
  
Another shrug. "If one were to break through my shutdown--"  
  
"If any of these scum can outhack STG, I'll eat every damn one of my thermal clips." She rolls her shoulders; the lights on her armor dance. "Move out."  
  


 

  
They are waiting for you, a mix of turian and humans who are just a little too old for anyone to feel like going easy on them. Their mechs surge forward while the rest huddle behind barricades at the other end of the warehouse. It's easy work; whoever programmed the mechs wasn't too up-to-date on their security software. Using last year's vulnerability exploits feels like cheating, but it works. The salarian even looks a little bored.  
  
Shepard doesn't. She's picking them off quicker than you hack them -- a quick three or four shots to the chest and they drop, circuitry going up in showers of sparks. It's only barely more exciting than target practice, and yet you can see her smile from your cover twelve feet away. Her movement has an energy to it that you haven't seen in a long while. Between hacks you catch yourself glancing her way more and more often. When the haze of pulverized electronics clears she's the first to bound forward, muzzle leveled at the nearest cluster of would-be criminals.  
  
Only one is brave enough to pop up and line up a shot. Lily’s Mattock flashes and his pistol flies out of his grip. He drops, clutching his hand to his chest, while she barks out a call to surrender. Secondhand firearms clutter the floor as the entire group, thankfully, decides it's not worth the fight. The warehouse is eerie and still, the only sound your salarian companion radioing into C-Sec for suspect pickup. Too easy, you think, wondering why you feel disappointed.   
  


 

  
The cab ride back to the Presidium is uneventful, though the looks you’re getting from Shepard make it pretty clear that your quiet trip is due entirely to a certain salarian sharing your shuttle.   
  
“Good shooting today, Shepard,” you say after a stop on Zakera Ward leaves you two alone in the car.  
  
She’s watching the Citadel’s arms wheel to frame Luna. It’s a pretty sight, but you’re still not used to it. “It wasn’t hard, Garrus. Just old mechs and scared kids.”  
  
“Mmm, you were enjoying yourself anyway. I know that look.”  
  
She’s smiling even as she rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t mind getting real missions from time to time. The Councilor was convinced there were gangs involved. C-Sec could’ve handled that just fine without a Spectre, much less two.” She draws a deep breath and blows it out in a long sigh. “It’s good to be back in action, but this is just glorified police work. Sometimes I miss the fighting. Not like the war,” she corrects herself. “Not those stakes, not those lives.”  
  
Shepard hasn’t fought for low stakes in years, but you know what she means. “We’re soldiers, Shepard. Couldn’t be different if we tried.”  
  
“What good are soldiers without a war? The galaxy is too busy rebuilding to pick fights... what are we supposed to do?” She sags back into her seat, the manic energy of the day gone out with a sigh. “I can’t stop being what I am, Garrus. I can’t stop loving what I am.”  
  
“Somehow I doubt picking fights would help anything...” You scoot closer, grateful when she goes on. You don’t know the answer to any of this any more than she does.  
  
“Some days it’s a fight just to remember that we’re not at war. Some days it’s like I never came home.”   
  
When you put your hand on her knee, she clutches at your fingers. You squeeze back. It takes longer than it should to find the words you want. “Do you remember what I told you after Menae?”  
  
“Yes.” She smiles.  
  
“It doesn’t hurt to say it again. Whatever happens, we’re in it together.” The cab is pulling up in front of your apartment building, but you kiss her, and take your time with it, too.  
  
“Garrus?” She doesn’t wait for your response. “I love you.”  
  
The autopiloted cab is flashing its lights, hovering quite pointedly near your front door. You lean your forehead against hers. “I love you, too, Shepard.”


	4. Chapter 4

_The smell of disinfectant follows Shepard into the night._   
  
_Her vision swims with the sickly mint-green of hospital scrubs. Each gulping breath is an effort; her muscles are bruised and stiff, and the air itself burns with alcohol and bile._   
  
_"It has to go," a man in a paper mask is repeating, gloved hands clamped around her bicep. He is oddly calm. "We can't save you otherwise."_   
  
_Her first few struggles against the gurney restraints are weak, but as realization sets in she thrashes harder and harder. An intern with a surgical marker steps back in fear, leaving her arm half-marked with purple dots. He's eyeing his patient like she might bite and it's the kind of look that makes her want to try._   
  
_"Listen, I know it looks fine, but..." The man in the mask is talking again. A nurse hands him a needle. "It's for your own good."_   
  
_"Fuck you," she snarls, every ounce of muscle and cybernetic fighting her bonds. "Fuck you!" One cuff is down to mere threads when the needle darts under her skin._   
  
_Warmth floods her veins. The edges of her vision streak with shadows._   
  
_Another nurse approaches, white knuckles showing their strain through a layer of latex. She holds tight to some contraption of white wire and black metal, its blade long and wicked. The air around it shimmers with heat._   
  
_The last thing Shepard hears before the sedative kicks in is the man in the mask: "We'll need to cauterize the wound."_

* * *

  
  
For the third time in a week the vidcomm interrupts lunch with its incessant blinking. Calls these days are mostly check-ins or invitations to expensive events, but the signature reads Alliance High Command and the sudden interest in Shepard’s eyes says she’s not expecting pleasantries. She’s over to the terminal in one smooth motion, half combat roll, half practiced saunter, and you almost miss the determined smile she shoots over her shoulder.  
  
"Duty calls, Garrus." She taps a few buttons and the terminal connects.  
  
“Commander. It's good to see you.”  
  
“Admiral Hackett.” Her salute is as crisp as ever. “Good to see you, too, sir.”  
  
Now it’s your turn to smile, ducking your head to hide it as you gather the plates from the table. Lunch is over if there’s a mission to be had. Either you'll both be heading off to the docks or she will, and you'll be at home, pacing and too full of misplaced adrenaline to struggle with her latest attempt at cooking something you can both eat. Your nerves are jangling, but the quiet flow of the faucet is oddly soothing, and the sounds of conversation from the next room even more so. You resolve yourself to doing dishes for the time being.  
  
"Never thought I’d say this, Shepard, but it looks like civilian life is treating you well.”  
  
She laughs, and you can hear her impatience. “Still too quiet for my liking. What do you have for me, sir?”  
  
Another dish goes in the washer while your thoughts wander. It's all life as usual with Commander Shepard -- you couldn't do without it any more than she could, though you wouldn't miss the paparazzi.  
  
“I’m forwarding some documents to you. I’ll need you to look them over and sign them.” There’s a pause, some faint chiming. You imagine the flickering blue Hackett tapping on his invisible console. "Shepard, I won’t sugarcoat it. We've received recommendations that you be retired immediately."  
  
That gets your attention. Your hands are suddenly refusing to work, and you are pretty sure the plate you're holding wasn’t clawed to shit before either. Shepard's a soldier -- it's not just her job, it's who she is. There's an icecap's chance on Palaven that she'll give that up, and you know it. The silence stretching from the other room says that she knows it, too.  
  
"Your last psych eval raised some serious red flags, Commander. The team recommended medical retirement. We’re offering voluntary procedures instead, with full pension and benefits." If the admiral is at all struggling with this news, he’s hiding it well. “You have two weeks to accept. After that we will formally initiate forced retirement."  
  
"Sir, I have years of service left. With all due respect, I--” She starts out strong, but falters. “I can’t.” Commander Shepard is begging, and you nearly drop the ruined plate. Things are officially much worse than you realized.   
  
"This isn't up for debate." His tone hits every little button programmed into you during years of training, and each one says _don't argue with a superior officer_. "The Council will be informed of these findings as well."  
  
Shepard seizes on this. "Spectres serve for life, Admiral -- until death or dishonor. Neither stopped me before.”  
  
There’s a long pause. The damn plate has cracked in two at some point; you are still holding one half in each hand.  
  
“You heard me, Commander. Hackett out."


	5. Chapter 5

_Gray hills, but no child, no trees; only fire. She runs until flames lick at her charred plating, until she cannot tell if the pain screaming through her body is from torn muscle or ground-down bone or burned flesh. She runs, knowing that escape from the blaze is her only option._   
  
_It catches her anyway._   
  
_She screams, sucking in lungfuls of smoke and sulfur. Her hair shrivels up into dark crispy clumps. They rain down around her shoulders; the fire eats them, too. It wriggles into the seals of her armor, melding plastic with skin and melting skin to tallow. The roar of her pyre doesn't hide the popping of her veins going up like sap in firewood as blood boils and bursts through her flaking skin. She screams and screams and the fire is always louder._

 

 

 

art by [lackia](http://thisminuteandsecond.tumblr.com/)

  
_When it has devoured every scrap of her -- hide, hair, and plating alike -- she lies pink and raw and naked in the coarse, greasy ash of her roasted bones. The child stands over her, impassive, still staring, for what seems like hours. Shepard cries the whole time._

* * *

 

You're elbow-deep in Ballistol and dirty rags when the light on your terminal starts blinking. The signature is a scrambled and encoded bunch of characters. Hoping you're not about to talk to someone important while covered in gun oil, you bring up the call nonetheless. "Vakarian," you say, and swipe one of the cleaner rags over your jaw in an effort at presentability.  
  
"Garrus." Liara's soft greeting catches you by surprise. "Is this a bad time?"  
  
"No, I can talk. Just doing some cleaning is all." You retrieve your gun's disassembled chamber and resume your painstaking work. "It's been a while. How are things?"  
  
"Good. Busy. And you?"  
  
From the glances you shoot your screen, you can see her smiling, but the stress shows. The Shadow Broker doesn't look maiden-stage anymore. If asari could skip straight to matriarch, that one would. "To tell the truth, it's a little quieter than I'm used to. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping you're calling because you need something."  
  
"And Shepard...?"  
  
Something in her tone has you setting your work down. "She's the same as she's ever been," you begin. If Lily hasn't brought up the recent call from Hackett, you're sure as hell not going to.  
  
"She's going a little stir-crazy, then." She laughs, but the sound doesn't come easy.  
  
"Something like that. Look, Liara," you go on. "I know you two talk. This isn't a social call and you've got something on your mind."  
  
"You're right. We've known each other too long to dance around the subject like this. I'm..." She takes a deep breath. "I'm worried about Shepard."  
  
You don't know what to say to that. ' _Me too'_ , maybe? It seems like everyone is worried about her these days. How about _'Her world is falling apart around her and I can't do anything about it'_? "You're not trusting gossip, are you?"  
  
"It would be bad enough if it were just the tabloids. I hear her name coming up on Council dockets and in top-secret Alliance channels... either they are planning something big or Shepard has done something they don't know how to deal with."  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
"Please don't play dumb, Garrus. We do talk, remember? You said so yourself. She hasn't told me too much lately, but I know when something is wrong." Even through the smudges of oil on the screen you can see color high in her cheeks. "So yes, I am worried. You can't tell me you haven't noticed anything!"  
  
"I've... noticed." You look over your shoulder to the open door. All of a sudden you feel like you are sneaking around and you have no clue why. "Things have been kind of rough lately."  
  
"Things?"  
  
"It's not really something I can share."  
  
"I see." She picks up a datapad and toys with its screen. “She did mention you two haven’t been intimate lately.”  
  
You wince so hard your brow plates ache. “Glad she felt like being so forthcoming.”  
  
Liara shrugs. “You have to admit, being distant is rather strange for her.”  
  
“Thanks for the tip. Don’t know how I’d manage without you. Now tell me, how’s Javik doing?”  
  
You expect a haughty glare, or even an exasperated sigh; anything to acknowledge that you might’ve touched a nerve. Liara gives you none of it -- she is completely serious, and the effect is sobering. "I didn’t call to tease you.” She’s fidgeting with the datapad again. “I just wanted to ask you to keep an eye on her. I'm worried she might... hurt herself. I get the impression that she isn't sleeping well or thinking clearly, and... some of the things she says when she forgets to watch herself... I know you're there for her, Garrus. Make sure she remembers that she doesn't have to face any of this alone.” She looks up, about to go on, when her expression changes. She smiles at something back over your shoulder. “Hello, Shepard.”  
  
“Liara. Sorry if I’m interrupting.” Lily is grinning. “Vakarian. We’ve got company.”  
  
'Company' could mean a lot of things, but the look on her face and the smell of limes wafting on the air means only one person: Vega.  
  
Liara still has that uneasy smile stuck to her face when you turn back to the terminal. "Duty calls, T’soni," you say. "I'll get in touch soon."  
  
Her eyes rest on Shepard a moment longer before she nods. "Yes. I'd like that. See you later, Garrus."  
  
  
  
  
  
Vega is waiting in the kitchen, doling out dark liquid into a pair of glasses. "Today we have two-year añejo from this little place out in the Arcturus Stream,” he explains. “You know, I don't normally buy that colony shit, but Earth is hard up for maguey right now." He hands one of the filled glasses to Shepard, then gives you an apologetic smile. "And it still don't come in dextro, but I brought some brandy I've been hearing is good."  
  
A cursory once-over of the bottle’s label confirms what you already knew. All pole dancer jokes aside, the kid has some good taste in booze. The humans are already toasting and giving their drinks dainty sips, each trying to handle the smoky liquor better than the other.  
  
All chirality aside, you did let yourself try Vega’s tequila once. Once was all it took. The stuff was _extra_ añejo, whatever that had meant, and it tasted like licking a campfire doused in rubbing alcohol. You had shared this description with them, only to be promptly informed that said taste was ‘the point’ of the drink. No wonder cooking for Shepard is so difficult.

  
  
  
“Did you come by just to get me drunk, Vega?” Shepard asks a glass or so later.  
  
“Maybe.” He grins at her and tips his glass. “Maybe I came for more of Scars’ stories.”  
  
“He does tell the best ones when he’s been drinking...” She examines you over the rim of her cup, and soon both humans are staring at you, waiting for an anecdote to just drop from your mouth.  
  
The urge to fidget is strong, but you fight it off. “Not that either of you lightweights ever remember them in the morning,” you say. Never mind that each of them could outdrink several krogan. They find something about that statement funny enough to leave off reminiscing about your stories and knock back the last few dregs of their tequila instead.  
  
Vega fetches refills, returning with full glasses and a somber expression. It catches both you and Shepard off-guard.  
  
“Worm in your tequila, Vega?” You’ve heard the ‘good tequila don’t come with worms’ speech enough to predict the glare he gives you, but nothing prepares you for how quickly he returns to seriousness.  
  
He settles next to Lily on the couch. “Shepard... I know you got a call from Admiral Hackett the other day.”  
  
“I get calls from the admiral all the time.” She swirls the liquor in her glass. “Any one call in particular you heard about?”  
  
“The one where he asked you to retire.”  
  
Shepard stops playing with her drink. “What did you hear?” she asks, and just like that she is no longer drinking with a friend. She was Vega’s commanding officer, and still is his superior. The tone of her voice says that she remembers that.  
  
“They asked Ash and me to give you the news first. We drew straws. I won, but Hackett took over.” He shrugs. “Guess I came by to see how you were taking the news.”  
  
“I’m taking it fine.” She sounds amused.  
  
You give her a puzzled look. After a second you notice James giving her much the same stare.  
  
“I’m fine. Trust me.” She laughs. “Just having some culture shock. That’s it.”  
  
“You know, Shepard, I only had the brief they gave me, but...” he begins.  
  
“ I don’t think culture shock works like that,” you say at the same time.  
  
The two of you share an apprehensive look. An uneasy hush falls over the room, the only sound Lily rustling the ice cubes in her drink.  
  
James finds his voice first. “If you don’t think they should retire you, that’s one thing. But... I’m just sayin’. If they think it’s that bad, maybe you should try to get some help. Worst thing that could happen is they tell you it’s nothing.”  
  
She opens her mouth to reply, then takes another drink instead.  
  
There are plenty of worse things that could happen, you think. From the look on Shepard’s face, she was about to say the same thing.  
  
When she’s downed a good two-thirds of her glass, she sighs. “I’ll think about it.” It’s a reluctant admission, but it’s a start. “There are worse fates than therapy. Right.” She raises her cup. “To good soldiers,” she says. Vega takes up the toast while Shepard knocks back the rest of her tequila. Soon enough they are commiserating over stories from basic, all previous tension gone.  
  
Definitely a start, you think. Liara worries too much. Seeing Shepard like this, you feel better.


	6. Chapter 6

_The first feeling she knows is pain._  
  
_Consciousness settles on her in spurts. Shepard feels the grass against her face, but it is neither cool nor soft. Each blade pricks like a knife and, as she hauls her misshapen body to its feet, countless nerves shriek protest._  
  
_She no longer knows what she is any more. The greasy, wet smell of old smoke clings like a shroud to the pink-scabbed mounds of her shoulders; her fingers are claws of bone and peeling sinew. In moments of clarity she wonders if this is how Reaper troops felt, imprisoned in their mangled flesh, but no one has done this to her. She is the victim of her own mistakes, her own fires and her own failures._  
  
_Shuffling and shambling, the burnt creature Shepard has become continues its migration._  
  
_She hears the town before she sees it. It's something out of a historical drama, all clean wooden fences and pale plastic siding. In the streets people shop and work, calling to each other in a language she cannot recognize. The signs, too, are entirely illegible; once or twice she thinks she might know a word, but always recognition slips just beyond her reach._  
  
_Even when she pauses on the sidewalk, ruined cheeks inches from a glass storefront, no one pays her any notice. Tracks of pinkish ooze and flaking ash scatter the concrete around her as she searches the goods displayed. Carefully, so carefully, she presses the smooth patch that used to be a nose to the window. From inside a neatly-labeled display case one thing catches her eye: the gleam of slick metal. All of a sudden nothing else matters._  
  
_She knows the words on the placard -- has always known the word, had only just forgotten it, needs it like air in her seared lungs. The language of life around her remains impenetrable, but Shepard smacks her fists against the glass over and over, ignoring the snap of brittle wrist bones breaking, determined to wrap her fingers around the trigger of that gun._

* * *

  
  
The next morning dawns sedate and slow. The two of you lower the screens against the Presidium’s artificial sunlight and sleep in, only rising when growling stomachs all but drive you from the bed. Hours later, when the clock shows single digits and you are both caught up on every minute of galactic programming that you ever cared to see, it occurs to you that, for all Liara’s worry, the exact reasons for Shepard’s troubles are still largely a secret.  
  
She’s in the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards. You come up behind her and rest your hands on her hips. “Ready for some sleep?” you ask, trying to avoid tangling yourself in her hair as you kiss the top of her head. “Have you told the crew yet?” you add almost as an afterthought, and it more or less is. Standing here with her in your arms the question doesn’t feel nearly as important as it used to.  
  
“Told them what?” she asks.  
  
You suspect she knows exactly what you’re talking about, and the sudden interest she takes in a stain on the counter does something to confirm this theory. “About Hackett’s call,” you say anyway, because you find you are not quite brave enough to say ‘retirement’ just yet.  
  
She disentangles herself from you and crosses the kitchen. “Should I?” She’s digging around in the fridge now, talking over the clink of bottles and the shuffle of styrofoam take-out boxes. “I was hoping to not bring it up unless it goes through.”  
  
“Goes through...? This doesn’t sound like something you can just talk your way out of. Not even for you, Shepard. ”  
  
She shrugs, twisting the cap off a beer. A minute passes in silence; you wonder if she knows she’s still clutching the cap.  
  
“If the Alliance thinks you need to be removed from service, then they have a damn good reason for doing it,” you say. “They have the best doctors in the galaxy working your file, and if they--”  
  
“The whole galaxy thought the Reapers were a myth. Doesn’t mean they were right,” she cuts in. “Doesn’t mean anyone trusted me.” The bottlecap leaves lines in her palm when she unclenches her fist.  
  
It’s a derail, and you know it, but spirits help you, you rise to it anyway. “Have I ever not trusted you?” Every line of her body is etched with the tension of an impending fight, and you find yourself more and more unprepared. What had happened to the calm acceptance she’d shown Vega? Had it been just the booze or the bravado talking-- have you, somehow, gotten so out of touch with her that you can’t tell the difference anymore? It frustrates you, but more than anything it surprises you. “This isn’t something you just handle by yourself, Shepard. Trust me.  They’re not retiring you because they felt like it. The whole process exists because it saves lives.” It could save your life, you start to say, but she interrupts.  
  
“Since when did you ever trust in process?”  
  
“Since the most hardass commander I’ve ever met drilled some things into my head.”  
  
“You caught on eventually.” She tries to find a laugh and can’t, can barely even manage a hollow smile.  
  
“How many times have we gone into hell together? I was with you from the beginning, but I can’t do it, Lily. I can’t let you pretend you’re fine when you’re not. And I can’t trust myself to hold you here if you give up.”  
  
“Will you leave me, then?”  
  
Anyone else would sound so vulnerable, saying that. Not her. Somehow she makes it a dare, but not just to you. For you both. _Could either of us do that? Which of us would it break first?_ her challenge says, and it almost sounds like she’s trying to hit another nerve. Then you notice the fear, the flush in her cheeks; she is scared and angry and desperate for something to hit, but she’s not doing it to make a point. Not any more than a cornered animal would be, and she looks as if she’s expecting a fight for her life.  
  
“Will you?” she says again.  
  
“There’s no Shepard without Vakarian,” you say, and that’s a challenge, too. “Would you make me go?”  
  
“Yes.” Her answer comes too quick. Not true, but still a low blow.  
  
“You don’t mean that.”  
  
“And if I do?  
  
She’s just lashing out, you tell yourself over and over. “Lily...”  
  
“And what will you do if I’m shelved? Find some other Spectre to follow around?”  
  
“They’d have some pretty big shoes to fill, trying to replace you.” It’s meant to be a lighthearted comment, but judging by her expression it falls flat. No one can fault you for trying. “I meant what I said on Earth. Retire, live off the royalties. Tell me that doesn’t sound like a nice break.”  
  
“Turians don’t just retire.”  
  
“Then lucky for me I’m not a very good turian.”  
  
Shepard shakes her head, but at least she looks frustrated rather than scared for her life.  
  
Maybe you’ve worn through at last. You want nothing more than for that to be the case.  
  
“What do you want me to do?” she snaps at last.  
  
“I want you to--” You cut off and take a deep breath. It takes a minute to gather your thoughts and press on. You feel her stare bore into you the whole time. “I want you to call Hackett tomorrow and tell him you’ll retire. I want you to admit that you are not fine and you need help and I want you to know that’s okay. Then I want you to actually get that help. If you want to try for reinstatement, fine. If you need that... sure. But I want you to be doing all this for yourself, Shepard, and not to get back in uniform.”  
  
Still she stares. Her eyes are red-rimmed and weary in a way you don’t even have words for. You’re not quite sure how much time passes before she speaks. “Those are a lot of wants, Garrus.”  
  
“Yeah... there’s just one more though,” you add. “It’s kind of the kicker.”  
  
“All right. Shoot.”  
  
“I want you to want those things, too.”  
  
At last she looks away.  “I understand.” A second later and she is gone, disappearing into the bedroom and coming back with a blanket. “I’m taking the couch tonight.”


	7. Chapter 7

_On and on Shepard walks._   
  
_Between distant peaks the sky pulses with the dull, red glow of hot metal, while everything in the valley below is soot and snow. Fat flakes fall and fall from clouds the color of gunpowder, along with smoldering chunks of rock that extinguish themselves in the sludge with a hiss. One misses her by mere inches, and a strange sense of disappointment blooms low in her stomach._   
  
_From somewhere among the mountains are the sounds of battle, but the snow deadens the sound until the screams are thin sighs on the wind, directionless and impossible to follow. Still she searches._   
  
_Her ruined armor is little protection against the wind, and the icy ash stings where it touches her skin. Hers are the only tracks as far as she can see, and even those are quickly obliterated by the unending snow. Here and there little lumps distort the slush; she knows without looking that underneath old bones lay mouldering._   
  
_She stumbles. The bodies of the long-dead crunch beneath her where she falls, and every tear she sheds freezes on her scarred cheeks. “Why?” she asks around a mouthful of grit, too cold to care that there is no one to answer._   
  
_Not for the first time she wishes she could remember how she even came to this place. A valley, a set of disappearing tracks in the snow... they had to have begun somewhere, no matter how far behind her that somewhere is. The sounds of battle are growing stronger, she thinks, but maybe it’s the wind again. The burst of fire crowning the horizon is no closer. At least the battle would be warm. Anywhere else would be warmer._   
  
_She stands, and the thought runs through her mind again: anywhere else would be warmer. Her tracks have all disappeared now, the only mark of her passing now the outline of her body._   
  
_One of the dark mountains, far from the distant glow, catches her attention. She brushes snow from her eyes, squinting, and between the drifting gobs of ash the mountainside almost seems green._   
  
_Another rock whizzes by, this one close enough for her skin to prickle from the heat. It lands in the indent from her fall, its crater obscuring the line between neck and shoulder. Shepard does not notice. She walks, gaze fixed on that faint glimmer of color._

_Behind her, the fire rages._

* * *

  
  
Sleep doesn’t come easy. You are in the kitchen, half-empty cup of water in hand, when a gasp rings out loud enough to startle you.  While you don’t recall deciding to go to the living room, next thing you know you’re there anyway.  
  
Shepard is extricating herself from a tangled blanket and trying to put together a shaky smile. “Waste of good sleep,” she says.  
  
You sit down beside her and proffer the glass.  
  
She gulps the water down and chokes on the last swallow, sputtering out what might be an apology between coughs.  
  
“Dreaming’s thirsty work.” You take the empty cup and set it aside. There’s no need to ask what’s on her mind. You can make a pretty good guess. “If you want to talk about it...”  
  
She sighs, long and heavy. “I’m going to call Hackett in the morning, and... I’m going to accept his offer. I’m going to retire.”  
  
If there’s a proper reaction to a statement like that, you have never heard of it. Her gaze tracks the movement of your jaw as it flares out in surprise. “Just like that?” you say. Your suavity knows no bounds, really.  
  
“Just like that. The Alliance has some good therapy programs, too,” she starts to add. It doesn’t come out, though -- her voice wavers, and halfway through the sentence she buries her face in her hands. “This doesn’t mean I’m giving up.”  
  
“It’s not giving up. It’s just fighting a different kind of war,” you say. “We’re still in it together.”  
  
She shifts, leaning against you.  
  
“Lily...”  
  
“What? You want me to talk about it?” Shepard tenses.  
  
One day she’ll tell you everything. But not right now, you decide. There will be plenty of battles in the coming days, and right now you are choosing yours. “Someday. The world isn’t ending anytime soon. We’ve got all the time in the universe, Shepard. You can tell me when you’re good and ready.”

A different kind of war indeed.


End file.
